


Cherries

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Food Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-19
Updated: 2009-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean celebrates saving the world with pie, and Castiel is corrupted by fluffy pastry!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherries

  
The world eventually stops falling apart, at three in the morning. Dean's not quite sure how he made it back to the motel with Sam, but they must have done, because he wakes up in his room, staring at the ugly wallpaper. He's half out of bed, ready to fight, before he remembers that the world is fine. For maybe the first time in a long time, the world is _fine._ He drops the sheets and falls back into the pillows again with a grunt.

...

He very quickly discovers he can't go back to sleep again, because he can't quite believe it.

Maybe can't quite believe it until he's seen Sam.

Screw it.

He climbs his way unhappily out of bed, pulls his jeans on, and walks barefoot to the room next door, cursing himself for being an idiot. Sam's still sleeping on his face, arms flung over the edges of the too small bed, like he's dreaming of flying. He's motionless, but noisy, and Dean doesn't think he's waking up any time soon. He's still wearing all his clothes, and Dean's willing to bet he's going to wake uncomfortable in a puddle of his own drool, but then that's a pretty acceptable punishment considering.

He collects the other bag, and takes it back into his own room. If nothing else he can do some post-apocalyptic gun cleaning at - Jesus, _seven_ in the morning.

But when he gets out of the bathroom there's an angel sitting at the table. And there's a box on top of it, that Castiel is regarding seriously.

When he looks up at Dean the serious expression stays.

"Dude, that box better not contain an apocalypse," Dean complains, only half joking, because really, he was just getting used to the idea of the world not falling to pieces for a change.

"It does not," Castiel assures sombrely.

"What is it?" Dean asks, because there are so many things between something nice like say puppies, and something bad, like an apocalypse.

"It is for you."

"That doesn't answer the question," Dean says dubiously, but he drops into the chair opposite him.

Castiel pushes the box across the table, one smooth gesture and on anyone else an expression would help. But Castiel doesn't really give much in the way of expressions, without a really good excuse, and nothing of the _smiling_ variety. It's like playing a mystery game, though Dean thinks he's gotten pretty good at it.

He shakes his head and gives in, lays a hand on top of the box.

It's warm. Which is...briefly disturbing.

"Is there something alive in here?"

"No," Castiel says simply.

Dean opens it. He doesn't have to look, he knows what it is straight away by the wet fruit smell of warm cherries, and rich sugary pastry.

"Oh." Dean doesn't intend the word but seriously, _seriously._

His mouth wants it.

Badly.

He doesn't have a fork.

He wonders if eating it with his fingers would be acceptable?

"The angels left me pie for a job well done?" Dean can't even manage to be snide, because he _wants_ it.

Castiel lifts a hand, and oh, _now_ Dean has a fork. He pushes sugar back and forth on top of the pastry, breaking the crust open, and the warm smell of cherries and pastry drifts upwards. Castiel breathes in through his nose, quiet but audible in the room.

Dean looks up at him, and raises an eyebrow.

Then he cuts off the biggest bit he can fit in his mouth, and then does so. And his entire world is briefly _cherries and pastry_ and seriously...this may be the best pie in the whole world _ever._ He tries another mouthful to be absolutely sure. Yeah, best pie ever.

Castiel's face is trying its damnedest to remain serenely unconcerned.

Dean's going to call bullshit on that.

"Do you want some?"

Castiel seems disturbed that Dean caught him looking. He shakes his head slowly.

"No."

If Dean had seen that flicker of expression on anyone else he would have pegged it for disappointment.

He pauses, with just half the fork dug in.

"What, did you like it too much the first time?" It's half tease, and half honest question, though Dean doesn't even realise until it's out.

There's a flicker of something there, that Dean is going to guess at being close enough to the truth.

"So, what the pie's dangerous now, because you liked it? Is pie now classed as a horrible temptation?" His voice is a little sharp, because seriously the thought makes irritation chase down his spine. That angels get denied anything even remotely nice, just so they can continue believing humanity to be the messy, violent little assholes they clearly think them to be.

Castiel says nothing.

"Yeah, you guys really don't get to have any fun _at all_ do you." He's honestly not sure whether to stay irritated, or to feel sorry for him, because being an angel is apparently way crappier than Dean would ever have thought.

Dean cuts off another piece of pie with the edge of the fork, and slides it into his mouth.

Castiel pointedly doesn't watch him.

He's distracted for a long second because it is _really_ good pie. This is the type of pie you should get for saving the world.

Which brings up an interesting thought.

"I saved the world right?"

Castiel looks at him curiously. Like maybe he thinks Dean could actually have forgotten. Like maybe he hit a few too many walls and his delicate human brain got dented. Though come to think of it that's not all that much of a stretch.

"Yes, you saved the world," Castiel says softly, and Dean thinks maybe he adds a _weight_ to the words that he doesn't deserve. Like it really is something people show _owe_ him for.

But, instead of commenting on it, he shrugs.

"What if I want to share my delicious pie? My world-saving pie-" Dean prods said pie with his fork. "Seriously good world-saving pie. Are you going to say no, are you going to leave me to eat delicious world-saving pie on my own?"

Castiel's eyebrows draw in, the tiniest expression, that's somewhere between conflicted and disappointed.

"Dude that's cold." Dean shakes his head, and pretends he's not enjoying the hell out of this. "I'm disappointed in you."

Castiel's head tips to the side, just a little. Dean interprets that as 'your methods of persuasion are crude, and obvious,' but possibly with a side order of 'but acceptable, I will have some delicious pie.'

"Delicious pie that's getting cold while we're talking about it."

Castiel looks down, as if the pie is still something dangerous and complicated. But his lips part, just a little, and Dean figures that's more than he needs.

"Open your mouth," he says quietly.

Castiel's eyebrows go up, and Dean's not falling for that either.

"Open your mouth," he says again.

This time Castiel obeys, and Dean grins, wide and helpless, a short little sound of triumph sliding free.

"Wider."

He doesn't really expect Castiel to comply but he does, and Dean is briefly tempted by the thought that he could probably abuse the privilege of command he apparently has over angels- over _this_ angel.

Who apparently doesn't have the good sense to refuse.

Dean grunts instead, and offers the piece of pie sitting on the fork, one slow tip of metal, pastry and fruit, which Castiel closes his mouth round, with no urging at all.

He drags the fork back out, it hangs between them, while he slowly chews.

Dean digs it back into the pie for something to do.

But that's too damn tempting, and the piece that breaks off ends up in his own mouth.

"You deserve pie too y'know," Dean says, through a mouthful of cherries. "You helped, dude you were _awesome_ , in a badass angel sort of way. So, you're owed some pie as well, and since the guys upstairs clearly don't believe in juicy bonuses for averting an apocalypse, you can have some of mine."

Castiel remains quiet while he finishes. He takes a lot longer than Dean, though he can probably be forgiven what with pie- hell maybe _eating_ \- still being a fairly new concept. Dean manages another piece while Castiel is still communing with the pastry.

"It's yours," Castiel says eventually. Though his eyes are now following the push-slide of the fork from the pie to Dean's mouth, in a way that has drifted beyond subtle.

"Exactly, it's my world-saving pie, I get to do what I want with it," Dean tells him, and he's honestly amazed his voice comes out sounding so normal, because _jesus._ He thinks maybe he gets why the other angels weren't down on the whole Castiel/pie thing because now Castiel is _watching._

He licks his lips, and holds the fork out again, just far enough away that Castiel will have to lean in if he wants it.

He doesn't even fucking hesitate, and then Dean is the one watching.

And he's never been very good at subtle.

There's a wet line of bright cherry across Castiel's lower lip. Which seems strangely obscene.

Dean reaches out before he really thinks about it, touches, rubs Castiel's mouth clean with the edge of his thumb.

Castiel doesn't stop him, he's soft and pliant, trusting, under the gesture. In a way that makes Dean think he doesn't understand.

Though the way he looks at him suggests that he does, that he understands _perfectly_.

Dean is struck by the urge to smear fruit across his mouth, a tacky red-pink splash of colour. And he'll have absolutely no way to explain that away as anything other than suggestive.

He thinks maybe he was pushing it last time, by feeding an angel pie. Because that's probably a metaphor, or an analogy, or _something_ that isn't just about delicious fruit and pastry.

That this is actually something that could get them in _trouble._

It occurs to him, that maybe this isn't about pie after all.

Maybe it's _never_ been about the pie.

Castiel's expression is so intent, and Dean doesn't even know if he can get in trouble for this, but he doesn't want to risk that. He's reckless enough, _stupid_ enough to try for himself. But not Castiel.

He can't make that his fault.

But Dean thinks his mouth would taste sweet, and sharp. Fruit sticky under his tongue.

He thinks it would _burn._

Dean's hand drops back down, rests on the table like a dead thing, while the other shifts the fork back and forth on the plate, digging in and sliding out of the pastry.

"The angels didn't leave me pie did they?" he says quietly.

Castiel stares down at where Dean is still breaking what's left of the pie into pieces.

"No," his voice is softer than normal. Not quite as portentous.

" _You_ brought me pie?"

"Yes."

There's something that feels strangely important about that, that Dean is afraid of unravelling.

His fingers twitch uncertainly in the middle of the table.

How the hell do you just reach out and touch an angel anyway? He can't, he doesn't, he pushes his hands flat on the wood, watches the skin under his nails go white.

"Why did you bring me pie?" he asks, voice quiet, like he already knows the answer won't be simple.

But there's no answer, just the slightest frown, the faintest suggestion of confliction.

"Making my own decisions is...problematic." Castiel says at last.

"But not impossible," Dean pushes, he's good at 'not impossible', hell he'll even take a crack at 'impossible,' if he wants it bad enough. "What do you want Cas?"

Castiel shakes his head, one slow, tiny movement.

"I do not know how to want, I _should_ not know how to want-" he stops talking, and Dean can feel the 'but' hovering unspoken.

"But?" He supplies.

There's a very long pause, and Castiel looks away, then very slowly, but pointedly, meets his eyes again.

"But I know how to be _obedient,_ " he tells him.

It's a low curl of words, suggestion, or- _jesus christ_ \- offer.

It shakes Dean all the way through.

Because he thinks, more than anything, he wants to leave fruit-red fingerprints on Castiel's skin.

Castiel doesn't move, he stays perfectly still, hands relaxed on the other side of the table, like he's waiting for an answer- no, like he's waiting to be _told._

And just like that Dean can't breathe.

He's left staring at Castiel's hands, at his slender wrists, and the ever-tidy edges of his sleeves. And he honestly didn't know how much he wanted to touch, how much he _wanted._ Now he has the taste of cherries on his tongue, and the whole world is too small, and Castiel is looking at him like he wants as well. Even if he isn't allowed to say.

"Go and sit on the bed," Dean says, and his voice is rough, but firm.

Castiel very slowly pushes his chair back, and rises.

He moves past Dean, and then there's just the soft sound of cloth moving, and springs compacting under weight.

Dean pushes the plate to the centre of the table.

Then he slides his chair back, and follows.


End file.
